


Yesterday Is Here

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 18:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17085296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: “Remus nods once but says nothing more as he curls his fingers around Sirius' bony wrist and tugs him down the hall in the direction of their shared bedroom. It's not a place he enjoys anymore but if it means protecting Harry, he'll give himself over to the dark and wear the crown of the martyr until Sirius bleeds satisfaction beneath his jagged teeth.” Sirius is trapped in the past and Remus struggles with what he needs to do and what he wants.





	Yesterday Is Here

Remus knows that it's not enough.  


He knows that when Sirius fucks into him, pounding him into unmade bed-sheets, his hand fisted into his short locks, twisting pain up the line of his scalp as he breathes heavy and hot against his neck, his hair is unruly and black, not the honeyed-caramel stippled with gray that it should be.

Remus knows that Sirius doesn't bother to look into his eyes because the risk of shattering the illusion is too great. So he shutters his gaze and lets Sirius dream up the half-lidded hazel eyes he spent years staring into long after their light went out and turned to the blankness of dead space.

Remus keeps his mouth pressed into a thin line despite the reflexive shocks of pleasure that crest through his blood like the lightning branching through his veins. He doesn't bother speaking because it's not his voice that Sirius hears. It hasn't been for years.

Remus knows this because when Sirius spills himself to completion he never speaks any other name but the one that's beat a bloody tattoo into Remus's mind, a sick brand of scarification he wishes he could scrub from his skin—but it's too late for that and the wolf knows it.

What he doesn't know is when he allowed Sirius to manipulate him into continuing this reprehensible cycle that repeats more often than the moon cries his name. He doesn't remember ever stating that it was okay, doesn't remember how or why things fell into acceptance or when he agreed to take the hangman's noose. He knows that it's wrong, that he deserves something better, something _more_. His life has to be worth more than living in a dead man's shadow—it's what he tells himself but he stands in the background and watches as Sirius burns all of his bridges down without bothering to put out a single flame. He thinks that perhaps he's started to enjoy the warmth on his skin, but that's not a welcome thought so he shoves it down to the deepest and darkest depths of his gut and pretends that the truth isn't so hard to swallow.

Remus knows that if he thinks about it too long, the pain of reality will stick to the walls of his chest and cloy like something saccharine sweet in the back of his throat. Remus doesn't like pain and somewhere along the line, he started to dislike sweets. He thinks sometimes that he's come to hate James, that he blames him for having such an effect on the dark-haired playboy in the next room but he knows that it's Sirius' own fault for not letting James go. He knows that blaming James is unfair and that deep-down and dyed-in-the-wool of his favorite cardigan lies the truth: he's too ashamed of himself to put the blame where it belongs.

And he does blame Sirius sometimes: in fact, every so often he condemns Sirius to a fate so ominous and foreboding that he fears the myriad thoughts inside of his own head.

But it's easier this way and Remus has grown tired. He's grown tired of the games and the pipe dreams and the deceit, and so he tries to hold onto some semblance of the person he used to be, even if it means lying to himself.

But he will not lie to Harry. Harry is innocent in this and Remus intends to keep it that way. Thus, when he hears Sirius whispering to Harry just beyond the threshold of the reading room, Remus sets down a book with words he can't really see for the fatigue fogging his gaze and follows the thrum of Sirius' timbre out into the hall.

“Go to bed, Harry,” Remus tells him, drawing Sirius' hand away from the soft of Harry's cheek. “It's late.”

He watches Harry's throat work on a swallow, undoubtedly choking down the disappointment that's mirrored in the brilliant green of his watery gaze. Remus nods once but says nothing more as he curls his fingers around Sirius' bony wrist and tugs him down the hall in the direction of their shared bedroom. It's not a place he enjoys anymore but if it means protecting Harry, he'll give himself over to the dark and wear the crown of the martyr until Sirius bleeds satisfaction beneath his jagged teeth.

He will suffer for the sake of the innocent because he is already damned. He will endure the mental torment and undergo the physical strain until Harry returns to Hogwarts. He supposes, that in a way, he's already come to accept that he's inferior to a man buried in a cold and darkened grave—but Harry's just a boy. He won't understand; he _doesn't_ understand why Sirius can't seem to frame his lips around _his_ given name and not his father's.

The answer is simple but Remus can't bring himself to tell the boy. He tells himself that withholding information bears no direct resemblance to untruth but he knows that he's walking a fine line. It's only a matter of time before he'll give into the thorns that leak poison into his veins and hollow out the shape of his heart. However, that venom isn't deadly yet and his heart still beats a rhythm that spells an age all too familiar. Still, the truth remains that Sirius doesn't care enough to change his ways.

Remus tells himself that when Harry returns to Hogwarts he'll find something better. He tells himself over and over again until he almost believes it, until the fabrication settles over him like a second skin and the warmth of it is like the security blanket he held as a child.

He tells himself that it's not Sirius who he's coming back to when his spine curves away from the bed and the familiar curve of dry, chapped lips fit against the shape of his own.

One more night. It's all he needs. Tomorrow, he'll say goodbye.

He almost has himself convinced but today's tomorrow is tomorrow's today and everything that he's led himself to believe still remains the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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